


Sentiment in the Morgue

by Sherlockian_87



Series: Sherlolly Jello Shots [43]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A morgue with no Molly is a morgue Sherlock doesn't want to be in, Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Sentiment, Sick Molly, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 07:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5903134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockian_87/pseuds/Sherlockian_87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone very important is missing from the morgue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment in the Morgue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaybeItsJustMyType](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/gifts).



> This is just a little something I wrote today while I was at work (shhhhh).
> 
> It's just a bit of fluff which I hope will help to make my friend Sweets feel better (aka MaybeItsJustMyType), seeing as she is currently unwell :(

 

 

* * *

Something was not right.

Molly's music wasn't playing in the morgue, her distinct scent of lemon wasn't there, and he wasn't greeted with her usual chirpy hello. Instead he saw a short man, with a balding pate.

_Mid-fifties. Divorced twice. Three children and five grandchildren._

"Who are you?" Sherlock spat out.

The short man turned, eyeing Sherlock. "I'm Doctor Ronalds. Who are you? Do you have clearance to be in here?"

Sherlock straightened to his full height. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. And yes, I do have clearance. Where is Doctor Hooper?"

Doctor Ronalds shrugged before turning back to what he had been previously doing. "Hell if know. I'm only on call if there's an emergency. Must have been something bad."

Sherlock gaped at him for several moments before closing his mouth with a snap. He spun on his heel and stormed from the morgue. As he made his way down the hall he took out his mobile and typed out a quick text to Molly. Upon reaching Mike Stamford's office Sherlock swung the door open, not bothering to knock.

"What the bloody –," the man sputtered. "Sherlock, how many times have I told you to knock first?"

Sherlock ignored this question. "Where is Molly?" he demanded.

Stamford sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "She's home, sick. Called out this morning."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Sick? Sick as in how?"

"I don't know! I didn't ask. Perhaps a sore throat or a bout of the flu."

Before Stamford had even finished his sentence Sherlock was walking away. He checked his phone. There was no response from Molly. He sent another text, his mind whirring with possibilities, his heart beginning to race.

As soon as he stepped outside of the hospital he raised his hand to flag down a cab. When he got in he was about to give the driver the address to Molly's flat, but reconsidered and said Baker Street; thinking to himself that perhaps it would be best to get Mrs. Hudson's opinion on what he should do, and what he should bring to Molly. John had told him more than once that his beside manner was severely lacking.

Mrs. Hudson didn't ask questions when he told her what and why he needed what he asked for; she merely set about in gathering up the things she thought Molly would like best. If the older woman had a small smile upon her lips as she did this, Sherlock chose to ignore it.

Twenty minutes later he was in another cab on his way to Molly's flat. He had a basket filled with a small pot of soup, a loaf of bread, and several types of plain biscuits. He also had two Tesco bags that contained boxes of tissues, throat lozenges (cherry flavoured) and a box of her favourite tea.

Upon arriving outside her building he paid the driver then gathered up everything. As he walked inside he muttered and cursed beneath his breath when he saw the 'Out of Order' sign upon the lift doors. There were five flights of stairs he now had to climb.

When he at last reached her floor, he let out a sigh of relief. He set down the basket and bags and set to work on picking the lock of her door. Within seconds he had it opened. Quietly stepping inside he closed the door behind him, making sure to not make too much noise with the plastic bags. He set them down, took off his coat and hung it up before proceeding further into the flat.

Silence greeted him, until a fat tabby cat came barreling out of the hallway, most likely from her bedroom. The cat purred and rubbed itself against Sherlock's legs. He gave the feline a pet before he toed off his shoes and moved down the hall. He pushed her bedroom door open, flooding her room with light.

"Mmmmphhh. GO AWAY!" groaned a raspy voice from the general direction of the bed.

Sherlock walked into the room, taking note of the Molly-sized lump beneath the covers.

"You didn't answer my texts," he stated.

"I shut off my phone. Didn't want to be bothered by it," she replied, ending with another groan as she pressed her face further into her pillow.

"Who is Doctor Ronalds? I've never seen him before."

Molly tilted her head back just enough so that she could roll her eyes. "There are other pathologists that work in the morgue at Barts, Sherlock. I'm not the only one." She dropped her head back down.

He let out a sniff. "You're sick."

"Yes. It happens. Everyone is allowed to get sick Sherlock."

"Not my pathologist."

She stared up at him with squinty eyes. "Just because I am _your_ pathologist does not prevent me from catching a cold. Sorry, it doesn't work like that."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "You should eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Still, you should eat something."

"No. My mouth feels all dried out and nothing tastes right. And who are you to tell me if I should, or shouldn't eat? Mr. Go-three-days-without-eating-because-I-am-on-a-Case!"

He rolled his eyes in reply. "This is different."

She grumbled beneath her breath. "I'm in no fit state to argue with you. And besides, I have nothing here to eat!"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Sorry, that excuse isn't going to work. I brought food."

Molly wiped at her eyes. "You … cooked?"

"Well … ahh … no. I asked Mrs. Hudson. She gave me some of the soup she had just made."

"Oh."

"There's bread too, if you want toast. OH! And I bought you these." He strode from the room before Molly could say anything, returning moments later with the two Tesco bags. He set them down on the bed.

Molly sat up, peering into the two bags. "Oh wow. Uhm, thank you Sherlock. This is really nice of you." Her cheeks flushed and he was certain it wasn't because of her fever.

"If you don't want to eat, how about a cup of tea?"

She fiddled with the handle of one of the bags. "A cuppa would be nice."

He gave a nod and left the room. Toby jumped onto the bed and began to swat at it before trying to climb in.

"Stop it you silly!" she said to him, pulling the bag away. "Crazy cat!"

Sherlock returned a few minutes later, a cup of steaming tea in one hand and a package of biscuits.

"Thanks," Molly said to him.

He handed her the cup with a smile. She took a sip, sighing happily as the warmth flowed down her throat.

"You can sit down, you know." She nodded towards the bed. "Unless of course, you're worried you'll pick up my germs," she added.

He sat. "I don't get sick."

"Hmph. Aren't you the lucky one." She took another sip of her tea. "Why are you here?"

He gave a slight shrug. "You're unwell. I thought you might need taking care of. Isn't that what friends do?"

Molly blinked at him. "I suppose."

"Is it _not_ what friends do?"

She swallowed thickly, staring down into her tea. "Depends on the type of friend."

He leaned towards her, his voice dropping into a deeper tone. "How about a friend who matters most?"

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. He took the cup of tea from her and set it down onto the bedside table, next to the package of biscuits.

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation when you are feeling a bit better," he said to her, reaching up to brush his fingertips over her cheek. "Lie down."

"Hmmm?" Her brow furrowed.

"Lie down," he repeated. He stood, taking off his suit jacket and folding it over the nearby chair. He grabbed the two bags and placed them on the floor, but Molly didn't move, too transfixed by him. He put his hands on his hips, frowning at her. "Why aren't you lying down?"

She continued to stare at him, confused. "Why are you being so insistent?"

He huffed. "Here I am willingly getting into bed with you, and you keep asking questions!"

Molly blinked at him, before her eyes narrowed. "Sherlock. All you've done is to tell me to lie down, why would I remotely consider the fact that you intend to lie down with me?"

It was his turn to blink. "Oh." He ran his hand through his curls. "Damnit, done it again," he muttered beneath his breath.

"Sherlock?"

He sighed. "I do this thing … this thing where I think that I am saying something out loud when in fact I'm only saying it inside my head."

"Oh."

He looked like a kicked puppy.

Molly rubbed her hand over her arm. "Do you want to take a nap with me?"

"Yes."

She smiled. "Well … get in then." She pulled back the covers in invitation.

He hesitated for a mere second before joining her beneath the blanket. She settled herself down on her side, facing him.

"Do friends … hold each other?" he asked, cautiously.

Molly fought back a giggle. "Friends that matter most do."

He gave a humph but held his arms out to her. She snuggled against his chest, a blissful sigh escaping. Sherlock held her close, slowly moving his hand up and down her back.

She licked her lips. "This may be the fever talking … but … about bloody time!"

He let out a rather un-Sherlock-like snort, failing miserably in trying to cover it up with a cough. Molly pressed her face into his shirt, muffling her laughter. She slowly peeked up at him, relief flooding through her when she saw that he was smiling.

"If I had known that all it would take was for me to get sick, I would have done so so much sooner!" she said to him in a cheeky tone.

He rolled his eyes. "Your illness has nothing to do with it."

"Oh? Then what was it?"

He slowly brought up his hand, running his fingertips across the apple of her cheek. "It was the emptiness I felt when I walked into a Molly-less morgue. Mycroft was correct in calling it my home away from home, but it's only home because _you_ are there."

Molly sniffled. "Damnit Sherlock, did you have to pick the one time that I'm ill to go all sentimental? I want to kiss you and I can't!" She pouted, making him chuckle.

"There will be plenty of time for that later. But ahh – perhaps you can keep the 'me going all sentimental' to yourself? I do have a reputation to keep."

She shook her head, rolling her eyes, but smiled. "You're ridiculous.

"Would you want me any other way?"

She laid her head back down on his chest. "No."

He nuzzled her hair with his nose. "You're not just a friend who matters most Molly, you are so much more than that."

She reached out blindly for his hand and he took it, lacing their fingers together. "I know, Sherlock. I know," she murmured softly, and in the warmth of his embrace, she fell asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Heh. Hope you liked it Sweets :)
> 
> And to anyone else who liked it, please be sure to leave a review! :D


End file.
